


How to Make a Mess

by Safealpaca



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Cooking, Blood, Cooking, F/M, Fire, Fluff, Knives, Miscarriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Scars, hobby swap, woodworking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safealpaca/pseuds/Safealpaca
Summary: This is inspired by the OCtober prompt 11 - Craft. My OCs, Ara and Gray, decide to swap hobbies for an afternoon - only, things don't go quite as planned. The tags are referencing mostly past events that occurred, Ara and Gray having been through so much in their tortured existences.This is super fluffy, but if you want angst (and more details) about this duo, check out my Whumptober collection, chapters 1 and 19!
Relationships: Gray - OC/Ara - OC
Kudos: 1





	How to Make a Mess

The plan was simple, short, sweet, inspired by a suggestion from Bach, supported by Cassie, by Opal. Ara and Gray were to "branch out," explore other hobbies, other avenues of intrigue. Gray had become so used to cooking dinner for his pregnant wife and teenage daughter, so used to cleaning dishes and sweeping the wooden floors. Ara was comfortable in the garden, at home with the plants and their sweet scents, calm with a knife in her hand, a knife that whittled away at branches that fell from their apple trees. 

"Switch it up," Bach said with a smile, looking at the two. "If you're getting frustrated, change up everything. Repetition is the killer of invention."

Ara had rolled her eyes at the comment. She didn't want to abandon her garden - some of those plants had been growing for years now, some would last for the rest of their children's lives. She needed to nurture them, coax them to life, keep them fertilized, trimmed, _perfect._

Gray didn't approve much, either. Ara had tried to load the dishwasher in the past - and managed to melt half of the plastic dishes that say "hand-wash only." She didn't have the eye for perfectionism that he did, didn't see every speck of dirt and grime. He called himself a "neat freak" at times, owning the title with pride.

After the two explained this, their refusal to give up gardening and cleaning, Bach merely shrugged. "So swap... I dunno, cooking and woodworking. That'd work, right?"

Gray and Ara looked at each other, shrugging in response. Ara knew Gray wasn't the best around knives but intrigue flashed in his eyes. Gray knew Ara was too easily distracted for cooking but determination rose in her voice. "We'll do it!" They said together, excited, eager. 

"Oh, and one thing," Bach added as the two went to grab tools for each other. "No helping each other. No standing over shoulders, no bossing around. This is supposed to be independent, okay?"

They nodded, still anxious, still ready to make their attempts. What was the worst that could happen, after all?

Gray hurried outside first, gathering different branches. He always found himself marveling at Ara's garden - she had planted it not long after she saved Opal and him from Zaneta. He could still hear her voice, quivering, lips trembling as she whispered, "I'm sick of taking lives - I want to _grow_ life instead." A smile flitted to his face as he saw the rainbow of flowers in a small patch - six different breeds, six different colors, for the six children that came before Opal, the ones that Zaneta killed with her experiments.

Digging through the refrigerator, Ara pulled out a small pack of chicken thighs. She remembered Gray talking about his most recent meal idea, about baking the thighs and cutting them up to mix them into a casserole. His eyes always lit up when he talked about a new recipe he found - such a passion was rare to find from that man. Even when they were alone together, offered a quiet place to enjoy their marriage, he found himself looking away, anxious, nervous. Ara knew exactly why, knew she couldn't heal those memories away. 

Ara's woodworking bench was in the garage, sawdust littering the concrete around it. Gray's nose wrinkled at the sight as he set the few branches down. She wasn't a _slob,_ no, but she did seem to turn a blind eye to filth in her work area. Quickly sweeping up the mess, he moved back to the bench, sliding open a drawer. There were so many tools, different knives, chisels, saws, a box of tangled measuring tapes. His eyes lingered on the knives, the scar on his right palm aching at the sight.

"Okay, so how does he season this thing?" Ara mumbled, looking through the spice rack. Gray had started to collect various spices, her brain usually tuning out when he talked about which rub went on which meat. _Why did they have such weird names?_ A couple in there made her giggle, vulgar names revolving around chickens that Ara usually bought Gray as a silly Christmas gift. "Well, that _is_ for chicken," she mused, grabbing one of them.

Gray set the first branch on the table - it was smaller, thinner, a good place to start. "What do I make..?" He asked himself, turning it over with his metallic hand. He wanted to make something for Ara, something more permanent than a meal. But _what?_ He shrugged slightly, gripping the saw tighter and cutting off part of each end. When the teeth broke through the last of the wood, the saw hit the table with a _thunk_ that startled the man. 

With the thighs seasoned and put in the oven - the baking sheet was non-stick, right? It had to be fine, there'd be no sticking, no way - Ara relaxed onto one of the island counter's stools. It was already so warm, the heat making her feathers bristle and burn. The woman had not felt exhausted in such a long time, and never from the flames, but the pregnancy was slowly taking a toll on her body. They were having a girl, a little girl, a sister for sixteen-year-old Opal. Ara couldn't wait to meet her at this point - she had been around her niece, Blair, so often that baby fever struck stronger than ever. All Ara could do was pray the baby lived this time.

Staring at the block of wood, Gray could almost feel the splinters it would give if he hadn't put on one of Ara's gloves. It was a tight fit, but it worked well enough to protect his remaining fleshy scarred hand. He didn't want a repeat, didn't want to see blood again. Would he be able to stay in the room for his newest child's birth? Zaneta always had their kids while he was chained up. He never saw, never heard. Did she scream? Would Ara? He grimaced as he felt the tightness of the glove's cuff around his wrist - it was not that different from the chains the monster once kept on him.

Ara propped her heels up on the bottom rung of the stool, eyes closed as she gently, so gently, ran her hand along her abdomen. They never got this far. After their first attempt ended to tear gas, the next few tries never progressed past a couple months. One had hope, but when Kinfolk enacted his reign of terror, she lost the child again. Loss. It was beginning to be all Ara knew. As her mind wandered, she could feel the choking smoke of the tear gas once again, burning her nose, her throat.

A heart, that would have been simple enough, Gray decided. He took a pencil and marked out the design, aiming for symmetry, for perfection. It had to be perfect for her, for his wife, their child. What if they failed again? What if there was more death? He cursed as the pencil tip broke against the wood, startling him once more. He was getting distracted, and the last time he got so distracted, he sliced his hand open. So much blood, the very memory of it made his stomach churn. When he grabbed for a chisel, he saw how his gloved hand trembled as it neared the knives - he didn't want to make the same mistake. 

A loud beeping brought Ara out of her mind, her eyes flying open. Smoke was billowing out of the oven, past the top and traveling to the alarm. Curses flew from her lips as she forced the oven open, holding a hand to the flames, her eyes shining as she willed them to recede. A coughing fit wracked her body and she waved the smoke away, reaching in bare-handed and grabbing the pan to pull it out. The heat kissed her fingers, her phoenix body relishing the warmth, how it calmed her, despising how it made her abdomen ache. Did their daughter hate fire, hate heat? _Why?_

Gray chipped away at the word, frowning as it came off in splintering chunks. Ara made it look so _easy,_ her hands skilled as they practically sculpted and molded the wood to the shape she desired. He was taking off too much, every chip jagged - could sandpaper really fix this? His eyes glanced around the garage some, landing on the table saw. No, no that'd be a horrible idea, he'd take off a finger or two with that! A sharp metallic _clang_ made his eyes return to the current project, and he stared in horror at the severed prosthetic digit. 

Ara sighed, struggling to turn the charred and stuck thighs over - non-stick, yeah right. "Stupid, how could I be so _stupid?"_ She grabbed a knife and a cutting board, her gaze lingering on the old bloodstains on one side of the board. Gray had been just as absent-minded as she was, slicing open his hand, sloppily stitching up the wound himself. She flipped the board over and started to try and salvage what she could of the chicken, left with dry chunks. There had to be some way to fix it...

Picking up the finger, Gray's stomach did a flip, his knees weak. Sure, it was metal. Sure, it didn't _look_ like a normal finger. The chisel had dented part of it and it popped right off - it was an easy fix, of course, but there was no stopping the overwhelming sudden nausea. Gray sunk to the floor, closing his hand around the metal, the ache that spread through his body reminding him of that bloody night in the bathroom. Ara, she was so used to blood, to gore - why did he have to be like this?

All Ara wanted to do was fix everything she could. For the longest time, she worked hard to try and repair every ounce of damage she did - but there was no bringing back the civilizations she wiped out, all the species she exterminated. It wasn't her fault - every one was sure to make sure she knew that. Their words didn't stop the guilt, how she missed the feeling of blood covering her hands. She hungered for violence. But, the barbecue sauce she poured over the chicken in its bowl, her washed hands diving in and mixing it all together, it was nearly red enough.

"Just... Just a little more," Gray whispered, tightening the tiny screw on his prosthetic. After it was tight, he tried it, tensing the finger, crooking it, sighing in relief as the nerve system connected back together. The technology in his arm was worth millions, and to break it so easily - could he handle bothering Ara's family with even more money for proper repairs? No, no, he was a burden enough, especially after his violent outburst against Lance... Gray was surprised Ara ever took him back. He didn't deserve a second chance, he was sure of it. 

Ara sighed, washing her hands again before starting to boil a pot of water. Instant mashed potatoes, it was a... good enough side for barbecue chicken, they had it before. She dug for canned carrots in the cabinet, a healthy side, maybe the only edible thing in the entire meal. Maybe. "Why am I so bad at this?" She found herself mumbling, fumbling with the can opener before cursing as the can slipped and spilled the preservative water all over the counter. By the Stars, the frustrated woman was ready to throw the can through a wall and crack her skull against the counter - how did Gray _do this?_

Gray looked over the heart with a grimace - a large chunk was taken out of one side, his chiseled writing abhorrent. Maybe a knife would have been easier, smarter, but the instant he grabbed one, his body had frozen, tightened until he let go. Pathetic, he felt _pathetic._ He could only pray Ara was doing well as he grabbed sandpaper and began to smooth out everything, hoping that would give it a nice-enough finish.

Ara laid her head down on the island counter, a headache starting to creep in. She was done with dinner, the oven and stove turned off, the carrots far too sweet from far too much honey, the mashed potatoes too salty, the chicken still tasting of a dry char. She couldn't bring herself to feed it to Gray, let alone Opal, or any other family member. They'd laugh - well, maybe they wouldn't laugh, but they'd want to. 

Her head lifted up from the table as she heard Gray shyly entering. "Oh, hey," she mumbled, looking back down. A sniffle echoed out as tears started to flow. "Why am I crying, I-I... It's a m-meal, it, I'm..." Ara's words remained caught in her throat as her husband placed a hand on her back. 

"It's okay, Ara, it looks yummy." The smile in his voice made her look up. He had a worried glint in his eyes, his body fighting back coughing from the residual smoke. "I bet you did way better than me."

Ara shook her head, wiping her eyes. The pregnancy, it was making her cry so easily, making her mind derail, flood with words her "Mama" spoke long ago. Ego, that monster, her own Zaneta. Ara was an experiment, just like Opal - only, Ara's body could handle every single Power the woman gave her, a miserable cacophony of tools for murder and massacre. "It tastes horrible, I... I can't feed anyone that..." 

Gray still smiled, setting down his project before going to the stove. Without hesitation, he grabbed two plates, loaded them with the potatoes, the carrots, the chicken. He set one plate in front of her before sitting beside her, watching as she gingerly held his shoddy creation.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, her eyes starting to shine with happiness. "It's really beautiful, Gray, it... You did so _well--"_

"Don't lie," he laughed. "It's trash compared to what you make every day." To his surprise, she shook her head again, holding the project close. More tears started to flow as she clutched it tighter than she would his own hand. "Ara, are you okay?"

Ara sniffed again, starting to smile. "It's so amazing, Gray, it... it's going right above the fireplace, so every day, I'll see it and-- and be reminded of your love and--" Her voice choked up, the hormones getting the best of her. She didn't want to let go of his creation at all.

A blush creeped onto Gray's cheeks, and in a hurry, he moved to stuff some of her meal into his mouth. His eyes widened - the potatoes were salty, but it made their flavor stand out among the smoky chicken and sauce. When he swallowed, he looked over at her again. "This is amazing!"

"Hey-- You don't get to lie either," she replied, shakily taking a bite of the meal herself. She hadn't mixed the food together, hadn't tasted how the flavors played off each other. There was still the dreaded carrots, however - how was he going to take those?

Gray took a bite of the carrots, a bright smile spreading. "The honey - it's such a good follow-up for the rest. You did so well, Ara, it's perfect." Ara opened her mouth to protest but he stopped her. "Hey, I'm not joking, I promise. This is good. What seasoning did you use for the chicken?"

She whispered the name, drawing a laugh from him. "That, and fire, uh. I got distracted, burned the chicken, I saved what I could..."

"And you did great," he replied. "I mean, I accidentally took off this finger." Gray crooked the metal finger again, laughing softly, the nausea having faded with such a delicious meal starting to fill him. 

Ara laughed as well, starting to talk more of her mishaps, Gray joining in talking about his own. And, from the next room over, Bach, Cassie, and Opal all smiled with pride at the pure love that laced all of the couple's words.


End file.
